The Watcher

25

The gym is located at the top of a rectangular brick building. A small corridor with wall-to-wall carpeting leads from the elevator to the reception desk, which consists of a curved counter made of polished wood. A cut-glass chandelier hangs from the ceiling above it.

“What sorts of workouts do you normally do? Have you belonged to a gym before?”

The young woman behind the counter is in her twenties and scrutinizes me with obvious skepticism, seeming to have a hard time accepting me as a potential client. My slovenly appearance is unusual for this type of establishment apparently. I ought to turn around, take the elevator back down, and go home. I know that Veronica is here somewhere beyond the reception desk. That should be enough.

I kept my distance the whole way here, not that it mattered. Veronica walked purposefully down the sidewalk without looking right or left, without noticing me.

When we reached the gym, I waited behind a tree while she disappeared through the glass-enclosed lobby. I didn’t rush across the street until the elevator doors closed. Then I watched the red numbers showing the elevator’s progress until it stopped on the top floor. On the wall next to the elevator was a list of the businesses and organizations located on each floor: dentists, real estate brokers, a nail salon. And then at the very top, the name of a gym: Exclusive. I should have stopped right there. That should have been enough.

But if something’s bugging me and gnawing at me, I just can’t drop it. I stand up straighter.

“I don’t currently belong to a gym, but I’m interested in joining this one. Do you think I could take a quick tour before I make up my mind?”

Where did those words even come from, and that self-confident, compelling tone? I don’t know, but it works. The young woman says OK and gestures for me to follow her. She shows me the locker room first and then escorts me out into the “landscape,” as she calls the large workout room. It has a lilac-colored wall at one end and an angled glass roof at the other end; long rows of treadmills and elliptical machines; strength training machines; and, at the far end, free weights. There aren’t that many people here working out. The personal trainer explains that there are usually more people here in the evenings and on weekends. I look around and see a couple who are about twenty-five, an older woman, and a handful of men each working out on their own. And then Veronica.

She’s standing at the back in front of a mirror, lifting spherical objects with both hands. She’s off in her own little world. Concentration and focus are written all over her face, and something else is, too: pain. She’s working out so hard that it hurts. I see the muscles bulging and moving beneath the skin on her shoulders and upper arms. I stand motionless, unable to look away from her.

“Those are the kettlebells,” the personal trainer tells me, nodding at the spheres Veronica is holding. “They build muscles fast. In just a few weeks, you can increase the strength in your arm muscles by up to—”

“How long has she been working out here?”

The girl looks surprised and maybe something else.

“You mean that woman over there? I don’t know. But we can go over there if you’d like. Then you can take a closer look, maybe try to—”

I shake my head, take a step backward. The personal trainer shrugs, says that, at any rate, we’ve pretty much finished the tour, that there’s not much more to see. I’m welcome to sign up for a membership if I want, or I can make an appointment for a free trial workout first if I prefer. We walk back toward the front desk. The girl thanks me for coming in and wishes me the best of luck. I remain there at the counter.

“But she… does she come here often? Have you seen her before?”

The personal trainer turns toward me again with a questioning look.

“Who?” she asks, followed by a second of silence. And then, “Are you still talking about the woman with the kettlebells?”

I pull up the zipper on my vest and nod.

“I just want to know what kind of impression she gives you. Does she usually behave oddly in any way? Or does she seem…?”

She studies me thoroughly, no longer any sign of obliging me in her face.

“Even if I wanted to, I can’t discuss our clients with you.”

“I understand that, but…”

There’s something in my throat, something that won’t go away even after I swallow.

“And even if I could, I wouldn’t want to.”

She turns to the side and flags the attention of one of her colleagues. I turn around and leave, walking rapidly to the elevator. I don’t stop, not even when I think I hear them calling to me. Instead of waiting for the elevator, I duck out the door into the stairwell. I jog down all those flights of stairs. Only after I emerge, huffing and puffing on the street below, right next to the tree I had recently hidden behind, do I look back over my shoulder. No one has followed me. I lean against the rough trunk and press my cold hands into my vest pockets.

I make up my mind to leave several times, and yet I’m still standing there forty minutes later when Veronica comes out, her face rosy and her hair freshly blown dry. She has changed into street clothes, too. I step back behind the tree and blow on the paper cup of hot tea I bought from the little hot dog stand just down the street. Most of the hot dog I bought is in a trash can. The first couple of bites tasted good, but then I heard my sister’s voice. The anorexia you had as a teenager. The volume was turned up, as if she were screaming the sentence, and I lost my appetite.

I press my back against the tree trunk and slowly count to ten before I peek out again. Instead of going back the same way we came here, Veronica cuts across the parking lot and walks over to the bus stop. Where is she going now? Obviously not home. Almost all of the buses that stop here go downtown. She stops in the bus shelter, sits down on a bench, and takes out her phone. I don’t take my eyes off her, and despite the cold having long since penetrated my clothes, I hardly notice it. It only takes a couple of minutes before a bus pulls up and brakes to a stop in front of Veronica. I hear the doors hiss open and can just make out her silhouette through the windshield as she climbs in.

I leap into action and race toward the bus stop, running as fast as my legs can carry me, so my breath comes wheezy and hard. Cold air pours into my chest, and my lungs squeak. I’m getting closer, rushing. Yet another hiss can be heard as the bus’s doors close. The driver glances in my direction, and even though he sees me, he pulls away from the stop. Puffing, the bus picks up speed, slowly at first and then faster and faster. I slow down, my legs feeling heavy, and I lean forward with my hands on my knees to catch my breath. My eyes linger on the back end of the bus until it turns a corner and disappears. Only then do I straighten back up again.

If the driver had waited for me, would I have gotten on? And what would I have done then? I stuff my hands into my pants pockets and kick a pebble. Deep in one pocket, my hand bumps into a small, hard object: Leo’s house key. I pull it up into the light and look at it gleaming in the palm of my hand. Then I stuff it back down again, turn around, and start walking. It’s time to head home.